Wall Between Us

Samuel was doing the dishes when the doorbell rang. He didn't intend to open. He never had visitors, so it was probably someone begging for money or selling something. The bell rang again, somehow weakly, and it sparked his interest. He wiped his hands on the kitchen towel and walked to the door.

He didn't see anyone at first and almost closed the door again, but then a small movement caught his attention. A young woman was sitting on the stairs. She had blonde hair that fell to her shoulders, and blue eyes. She was pale beyond her complexion and looked weak. She was shivering.

"Hello there," Samuel said. "Are you alright?"

"No," she whispered and cleared her throat. "Please, I need help. I live next door. I wouldn't bother you, but I have no one else I can ask."

Her breathing was labored, and she paused for a moment, gathering strength. She had some sort of a foreign accent, but he couldn't figure it out when she was so breathless and spoke so quietly.

"Please," she said. "Can you please go to the pharmacy for me and get my medicine? And some food for my cat. Please. I'm too weak to go myself."

She lifted her hand and offered him a piece of paper and some money. He took them, too surprised to figure out how to decline.

"Please," she whispered. Her hand fell down like it was too heavy to hold up.

He looked at the note and the money, then back at her. Well. Why not? She looked truly pitiful, and as a loner himself he knew well enough how shitty it was to be sick alone. Besides, it wasn't like he had anything to do that night, or any night.

"Well, okay," he said. "Need help getting back home?"

She tried to stand up, her legs trembling, and nodded. She seemed embarrassed to need the help, but too sick to decline. He stepped back inside to get his coat and keys, helped her up from the step, and supported her as they walked to the next door of the terrace house. She was shorter than him, and he held her by the arm when they covered the short distance slowly. Her door was ajar, but the inner door was closed, and he remembered about the cat. He opened the door carefully and helped her inside. She collapsed on the sofa with a sigh.

"I'll be right back," he said hesitantly.

"Take the key," she whispered and gestured towards the hall. He picked up keys from the bowl on the table and tried it on the door. It fit. He put it in his pocket.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked, hovering in the doorway. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"No, no, I'll be fine once I get my medicine," she said and drew a few ragged breaths. "It's just asthma, it just sounds awful."

She closed her eyes and coughed, pulling a blanket over herself and curling up. He couldn't think of anything more to say, so he left.

He didn't have a car, so he walked towards the shopping center near the train station, eyeing her note. She wanted flu medicine, painkillers, and medication for her asthma. She had included the prescription and hand written consent for someone else to fetch them. He hoped that would be enough. She had also listed the cat food brands. There was no mention of anything for her to eat.

Johanna Åkerblom, he read from the prescription. So she was a foreigner. Johanna. He wondered how it was pronounced and if her friends called her Jo.

He went to the grocery store first as it was closer. He considered getting her some food, despite not being asked, and settled for chocolate. You probably couldn't go wrong with chocolate. Varieties of heart-shaped Valentine's Day assortments were on display, but he chose a regular chocolate bar with no nuts, in case she was allergic.

The pharmacy wasn't as big of a success. He got everything else on the list but, as he'd suspected, her hand written consent wasn't enough, because it didn't appoint him specifically to be the one to fetch the medication. He received a form to fill out for her to sign. The pharmacist seemed sympathetic but didn't budge in the requirement, so he decided to get her signature and come back right away. It felt a little tedious, but her breathing had been so pained he didn't have a heart not to try. She probably really needed her asthma medication.

He walked back and let himself into her apartment, feeling uneasy.

She was still on the sofa, apparently asleep. He went into the kitchen. There were bowls for the cat, and he filled the dry food bowl up and changed the water. There was no sign of the cat. Maybe it was timid.

He put the flu medication on the kitchen table, and on a whim, peeked into her cupboards. There were a few cans of preserves, a box of crackers with only crumbs left at the bottom, a few portions of soup in a cup, and half a packet of rice. The fridge held only bottles of condiments. He thought she probably didn't want to bother anyone and was hoping she could get to the store herself once she had her medicine. The thought that she had asked for her cat made him feel really bad. It made it sound like she knew she wouldn't be strong enough to go and didn't want her pet to go hungry. What about herself? She would only get weaker if she didn't eat.

Right then: he needed her signature and her medication.

He searched for a pen and filled out the pharmacy form, checking the spelling of her name letter by letter. He filled up his own details and went to ask for her to sign it.

"Um...hi," he said quietly, hovering awkwardly beside the sofa. She didn't react.

She looked small in her sleep, curled up on her side. Her hair was a messy tangle of light yellowish strands. He didn't remember ever seeing anyone with such fine hair. It looked sleek and slippery, silken. He thought of fairy tale princesses. Her ear was small and rosy red, like a piece of jewelry peeking out from her hair.

He shook his head and touched her shoulder carefully. She mumbled something.

"I need you to sign this, please," he said and offered her the form. She fumbled for the pen and scribbled something to where he pointed. He felt immensely relieved.

"Do you need something now? Water? Painkillers?" he asked, but she had drifted off again.

He let himself out and hurried back to the pharmacy. The pharmacy form worked like a charm, and he felt a sense of accomplishment when he stepped out with her medicine.

His way back went past the grocery store, and he stepped in and bought all sorts of food one might like to eat while being sick: soup, yogurt, candy, salty crackers, more chocolate, different juices, tea and honey.

He let himself back into her place again, a little more sure of himself. There was still no sign of the cat, but some of the cat food had disappeared. He needed to use the bathroom, and while he was there, he noticed the cat box was filthy. He emptied it and put new litter in. There was a small pile of recyclable rubbish bags filled with dirty litter in the corner, and he scooped them up to take them to the outside bin.

He set her medicine, juice, and tea with a hefty dollop of honey on the coffee table, and started to wake her up.

"Hey," he said and nudged her. "Johanna?" He hoped he pronounced it anything like it should be pronounced. "Come on, wake up, take your medicine."

She stirred, but he had to almost lift her before he could get her to sit up. She tasted the tea and juice obediently and used the asthma inhaler with a well-practiced routine. Then she seemed to lose her strength again, and slumped backwards to lean on the back of the sofa. Her face was pale and clammy, her eyes glossy, and her breathing still sounded like it could stop any minute.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "Can I do something more for you?"

He could see her trying to concentrate. She said a word that sounded like a name. She got a little livelier and tried to get up.

"Hmh?" he said. She tried to concentrate on him.

"Katten," she said. "The... the cat. Musse."

"I put out water and dry food, and changed the litter," he said. "Want me to give it canned food as well?"

She stared at him, squinting her eyes like the light hurt her. She nodded. He smiled, hoping it came out as encouraging, and went to open a can of cat food and put it in a bowl next to the dry food. There was still no sign of the cat.

She was still sitting nearly upright, slumping against the back of the sofa, when he came back to the living room. He sat beside her.

"Listen, Johanna," he said. "When was the last time you ate? Can I make you some soup?"

"I... don't know," she said. "I've been sleeping."

"Uh huh," he said. "Well how about you go back to bed, and I'll make you some soup, huh? You'll feel better if you eat."

He didn't know if it was true, but he really hoped so. He helped her upstairs to her bedroom, and she was so weak she leaned heavily on him. She felt small, soft, vulnerable. He did his best to be gentle and touch her as little as possible, and still her proximity made his heart thump. He was a loner, and to be this close to anyone, let alone a pretty girl, was highly unusual for him.

He realized her bedroom shared a wall with his, and her bed was against it, just as his was. He helped her in, tucking the covers up to her chin.

"Okay there?" he asked. "I'll bring up the tea and stuff. And the soup when I get it done."

He took the juice, tea, and medicine upstairs and set them on the bedside table. Johanna looked like she was sleeping. Her breathing was still heavy and labored. He thought of opening a window, but then the cat might escape.

Samuel went back to the kitchen and warmed up some soup. Midway through, a lanky white cat sneaked in. It avoided him the best it could, and settled in to eat so that it could keep an eye on him as he stood by the stove.

"Well, hello, Musse," he said. The cat didn't seem impressed. Maybe it was his pronunciation. He laughed at himself, realizing he was worried what a cat was thinking about him.

He had always been an introvert, and not very good at making friends or keeping up relationships. After finishing school, his few friends had scattered around the country, and now he was effectively a hermit. He met people at work, but he did a lot of telecommuting, and even when he went to the office, he hardly talked with anyone. Outside work? Never. His longest conversation in months had probably been with the pharmacist, trying to figure out how he could buy Johanna's medicine. Still, to be nervous of a cat seemed like overkill, even by his standards.

He took the soup up to her. Johanna was disinterested but ate a few spoonfuls, and a few more when he fed them to her. It felt really weird but somehow nice to feed her, to take small portions at the tip of the spoon and try not to drop any on her covers.

After she was done eating, he couldn't think of anything more he could do for her. He fidgeted for a few minutes. It didn't feel right to just leave her but staying felt just as wrong. Eventually he decided to leave, but to keep her keys so he would be able to come back and check on her later. That way she wouldn't have to get up to answer the door.

Samuel returned home. He tried watching tv, listening to music, reading. He tried going to sleep, but all he could think of was the bed at the other side of the wall. He touched it, spreading his fingers. He wondered if he should move his bed further away.

He was worried about Johanna. Her breathing was so labored and sounded so awful, wheezing in her chest like that. She had said she'd be okay, that it was just asthma, but did she really know? He was torn between respecting her privacy and wanting to take care of her.

Close to midnight he surrendered. He sat up and called the round the clock health care advice number. They advised it would be best to monitor her condition, and if it appeared she didn't get enough oxygen, he should call the ambulance. He asked how he would know if she was getting enough oxygen. They told him to monitor the color of her lips, fingers and toes.

Now, how was he supposed to do that?

He pressed his ear against the wall, but of course heard nothing. He thought of her, alone, sick, maybe fighting to breathe. He put on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, and went back to her place.

She was still alive, and still very sick. All the drink, medicine, and soup were just as he had left them. She was still breathing heavily, and it sounded as just as awful as before.

He went to take the soup away. Musse had eaten all the canned cat food and most of the dry. He considered filling the dry food bowl up, but didn't dare. There was still some left, and he didn't know how much food was too much for a cat. He changed the water anyway and checked the cat box.

He took a big glass of cold water upstairs. Johanna was restless, tossing and turning, and he tried to get her to drink. She was hot as a cinder, but sweaty, her hair was sticking to the skin of her forehead and neck. He tried to wipe the hair off her face and murmured something soothing. She mumbled something back. He didn't think she knew he was there.

He went through her closets until he found towels. He wet a small one with cool water and sat down on her bedside to wipe her face.

The effect was instantaneous. She soothed, stopped fidgeting, and pressed her face lightly against the towel.

"Oh that's better, is it?" he said quietly. "You poor thing."

She was so hot. He was a little worried, but he had no thermometer, and didn't know if she did. He kept wiping her forehead, cheeks, and neck. She had on a pajama shirt with buttons in front, and after a moment's consideration he unbuttoned the top one and wiped the pit between her collar bones. He kept turning the towel so that it would be cool against her skin and went to wet it after her scorching skin had warmed it again.

He puffed up her pillows the best he could to get her head higher and to ease her breathing. He opened the window for a few minutes to let cool night air into the room, then closed it again, fearing the draft would be bad for her. He tried to remember if feverish patients should be kept cool or warm. He was sure he had heard it once, but couldn't remember, and now he was anxious he would make her feel worse.

She was restless, making small agitated movements and muttering something unintelligible. He reacted instinctively and reached out to touch her cheek softly.

"Hush," he said quietly. "Just try to rest."

She relaxed a little and pressed her head against his hand. Her face was so small and delicate. He didn't have the biggest hands, but next to her cheek, his palm seemed enormous. He stroked her soft skin carefully.

Slowly, and like he was in a dream, Samuel lay down on the edge of the bed. She was in the middle but moved a little to give him space. He settled down and pulled her into his arms, her head on his shoulder. She pressed closer and sighed deeply, muttering something in a language he didn't know.

He was delighted and terrified. She was going to be livid with him for sure when she got back to her senses. A plea to run her errands surely didn't include an invitation to get into her bed. Still, she was more at ease now that he held her, and he realized her head was properly elevated on his shoulder, making her breathe a little easier. He felt like he was actually helping her, and it made him feel better about being there.

After a few minutes he realized he was relaxing as well. There was something very comforting in being so close to another human being. It had been a long, long time since he'd been this close to anyone. He wasn't cut out for casual relationships, so the last time must've been with Susan, and it was... was it five years already? No, four.

Johanna's feverish dreams were restless, and she stirred every once in a while to utter words in a language Samuel now thought was maybe Swedish, or Danish. She quieted down every time, if he just said something soothing and stroked her a bit, her matted sweaty hair or her narrow back. She didn't exactly smell like roses, but he didn't mind.

He drifted slowly to sleep as well, holding her.

—#—#—#—#—#—

Samuel woke up. It took a moment to remember where he was, and why. He blinked in the predawn gloom and wondered what had awoken him. The clock on the nightstand was half past five.

Johanna twitched beside him, and he turned his attention to her. She was breathing better and didn't seem as restless as before. She let out a soft sound and made a small movement, pressing closer to him.

"Johanna?" he whispered.

She wasn't awake, and she didn't wake at his whisper. She quieted for a minute and then let out a heavy breath. She was dreaming.

He hesitated, not knowing if she needed soothing or not. She didn't seem as agitated as before. Her back pressed against his side, and he could feel her wonderful, round bottom against his hip. She made the sound again and jerked a little.

It was a moan. He blushed furiously when he suddenly realized what kind of a dream she was having. Oh, fuck.

He was petrified. He was intrigued. To his horror, his dick started to stiffen rapidly. He was acutely grateful it was pointed away from her, so she didn't feel it.

She moved a little more, her hips rolling, and sighed. She wasn't touching herself, but her dreams resonated in her body, making her press against him and move her hips. She moaned again, and her breathing got heavier.

He wondered what she was dreaming about, what would make her sound so wonderful. There was no denying how much this aroused him. His cock was throbbing, he couldn't remember when it had last been this hard. He was acutely aware of every place where her body touched his.

She came. She had an orgasm in her sleep. He had feared she would wake before it, but no. She shuddered, let out the cutest whimper he had ever heard, then became quiet again.

He lay still with his heart thumping painfully in his chest. Oh, god. There was absolutely no way to sleep again after that. He knew he had to sort himself out, but he didn't dare move until she relaxed more and rolled a little further from him.

He got up as slowly and quietly as he could, tiptoed downstairs and into the bathroom. He locked the door and fumbled in his haste to get his pants down. His dick was hopelessly hard, pointing straight up towards the ceiling. He grabbed for toilet paper, pressing it against the head with his left hand, and stroked his right up and down on his shaft tentatively.

He remembered the sound she made when she came. He thought about her small, delicate body and how much he would love to witness that for real. It would be so wonderful to get to touch her, to hear those small moans so that he would be the one drawing them out of her.

His cock surged in his hand, his knees wobbled, and he shot load after load of cum into the toilet paper. It was powerful, overwhelming, convulsive, but for all that force it wasn't very satisfying. He felt vague guilt and shame. He felt like he had spied on her, that he'd seen - or heard? Felt? Witnessed? - something that wasn't meant for him. Something private.

He flushed away the evidence and stuffed his penis back into his pants. He double-checked the bathroom to see whether he'd left a mess. He left the bathroom, wondering what to do. He had work that day, and he knew he needed to get back home for that. He couldn't imagine getting any more sleep, and most definitely he couldn't imagine crawling back into her bed, now that she wasn't as sick as yesterday. And after... that.

He took up a fresh glass of water and put it on her nightstand. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

He left her a note saying he had gone back home to work, leaving his cell number and a wish that she'd let him know how she was doing, and if she needed anything. Then he filled up Musse's empty dry food bowl, changed the water in the water bowl, and went back to his own apartment.